


Jim Gets Shot (Twice)

by Feathers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, First Time, M/M, MIND STUFF, Unrequited Love, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 08:41:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feathers/pseuds/Feathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock would do many things, but this? This was a thing he had never imagined himself doing. He was a monster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jim Gets Shot (Twice)

“Your friends will die if you don’t,” Moriarty threatened with a wicked gleam in his eye. His smirk could make the devils skin crawl. The smile wasn’t really visible, of course. But he could see though that. Sherlock read his very stature – shoulders back showing confidence, the firm stance says he’s not going to change his mind on the subject, the fluid like movements like it’s the easiest thing in the world for him - yet sporadic from his over zealousness - , his chin up clearly defines his superiority complex, and the glaze over his eyes says he’s absolutely insane. The man who holds all of the cards and knows how to play them. But he would rather set the world on fire.  
  
The chill that is sent up the detective’s spine is unnatural and unrecognizable, snapping his eyes open. He’s never felt this way before. Why are his palms starting to sweat? This is so uncomfortable for him, and he has no idea why. Then it clicks. “John,” slips out of his chapped lips before he can stop himself. Yes, John is his friend, but he’s never realized this new feeling before now. He squelches the feeling before he concentrates too hard on it this moment. The matter at hand requires all of his attention.  
  
His enemy’s smile becomes impossibly more devious. Sherlock can’t help but stare at them as they whisper, “Not just John.” He tilts his head. It embellishes his jugular, makes his pulse more visible. Sherlock still stares. His pulse is faster than normal. This can be induced by either an adrenaline rush or arousal – knowing Moriarty (which he likes to think he does) it would be as much of one as it is the other. Sherlock’s tongue darts out to swipe at his own dry lips. “Everyone.”  
  
“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock spits out. This can’t be happening. He tries to think of scenarios that could benefit him in this situation. Dozens of stratagems, fairy tale plots, and chess moves that may apply. Sherlock knows he’s won, but he has to play the loser right now. Nothing helps. He doesn’t know this feeling he has – he doesn’t know whether he’s ecstatic or in dread.  
  
“Everyone,” Moriarty repeats, smiling just the littlest bit more. Sherlock can’t stop watching his lips.  
  
“Lestrade,” Sherlock finally deciphered the feeling he felt that was so unfamiliar. He felt the need to readjust his pants. This can’t be happening at a time like this. Lives are at stake. But Sherlock has finally found a man who can match him wit for wit. He knows what he’s going to do. Luckily he predicted this outcome and planned ahead. But if he continues to act scared, Moriarty will think he has the upper hand. But this situation. Right now.  
  
“Three bullets; three gunmen; three victims,” Moriarty explains, as if Sherlock didn’t already know. “There’s no stopping them now.” He wants to bite the skin between his neck and shoulder until he finally stops smiling. Lick it and blow cool breath over it to see if he shivers like anyone else might. Sherlock has no idea what to do. He’s never approached another person the way he wants to now. Or at least has had the chance to. Sherlock was too afraid he would mess things up to ever approach John. But Moriarty. He’s here and Sherlock knows he’s willing. “Unless my people see you jump.”  
  
Sherlock can’t look at him now. These aren’t things he should be feeling. Moriarty is the man to be captured and made to pay for his crimes. Not to be ravished with all of the passionate anger that Sherlock cannot compute. “You can have me arrested; you can torture me; you can do anything you like with me.” ‘Oh, please don’t say that.’ “But nothing’s gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in world will die… unless…”  
  
Moriarty never looked better than he does now. So confident that he’s won. So sure – so… gorgeous.  
  
“…Unless I kill myself – complete your story.” Sherlock stammered. He’s not worried. He has a plan. Everything is taken care of. Lestrade is safe. Mrs. Hudson. And John…  
  
Oh Christ, John. The only one who could handle Sherlock’s insanity. Keep on his level. Keep him level. His damned jumpers. His inability to keep a girlfriend for any long period of time. The look he gets when he wants Sherlock to attempt to be more human. The look in John’s eyes when he utterly trusts anything that comes out of his mouth. He knows Sherlock isn’t a fraud. And Sherlock… Sherlock loves him for that. That’s such an odd word. Love. He can’t think about that now. John is going to hate him. After what Sherlock is going to do? John will hate him and it will break Sherlock.  
  
But James Moriarty. Moriarty could never break Sherlock. He’s tested him and tested him. He’s given Sherlock a challenge. Gave him a game of cat and mouse that could amuse him endlessly. And yet this was the end. For both of them. One way or another, this will be over. This was some of the most fun Sherlock has had in his life. Fun is such a wrong word. This isn’t supposed to be fun. John once said that there’s nothing to be excited about with three new homicides. John gives him balance. But James helps him indulge in this addiction. Constant pushing and pulling and trying to outdo the other. The detective would like to think that it’s purely an adrenaline rush that’s causing the growing bulge in his pants right now, and it part of it is. But another part of it is that this deviant has given him a challenge. One in a million. God, he needs a cigarette. Or something else between his lips.  
  
“You gotta admit, that’s sexier,” James explains. And, oh God that’s true. It was prefect… Almost.  
  
Then Sherlock Holmes finally snaps. Those fucking lips just taunting him. The pulse that was quickening with each moment. Those damn eyes that can match the emptiness like his. He lunges at Jim and their bodies clash like a car crash - it feels so slow and so fast at the same time (it is his first kiss). It was sloppy and painful. And oh so shortly lived. He pulls back to watch Moriarty’s façade fall apart.  
  
But it doesn’t. He holds strong and even looks pleased. Those plump lips curling up, nearly bruised from the impact. Sherlock hates that smile. Almost as much as it makes his blood rush downwards. He doesn’t even try to stop himself from doing the next thing that comes to mind. He punches Moriarty in the face. Sherlock acted without analyzing beforehand. It kind of exhilarated him.  
  
Moriarty falters back, but doesn’t crumble. He laughs, feeling his jaw to make sure he’s not seriously injured. He’s not. His jaw is now most likely very sore, and a cut on his lip has formed. His lip is just bleeding and it makes his smile even more beautiful. It disgusts Sherlock. So much that he just needs to taste it. He observes Moriarty for a second. Something in Moriarty has changed. His stance has become less condescending, his breath becoming shorter. And then Sherlock deduced something. And he chuckled a bit.  
  
They collided again, even more furious but with a bit more pinash. It was bittersweet. Delicious and oh so wrong. He slipped his tongue out to get a taste of his blood. Copper with a dash of evil. It made his dick twitch. Moriarty felt Sherlock’s tongue ebb at his lips and opened them gladly. It became a fight for power. Tongues wrapped around each other, but without their being too much; the taller man was a quick learner, after all. Learned where was sensitive and what pace to move at. He calculated each movement perfectly. He brought one hand up to Jim’s waist. Jim’s hands grappled onto Sherlock’s arms, pulling their bodies together.  
  
Jim was just as hard as Sherlock was – he could feel it through his designer suit. The slight fiction was damn glorious and Sherlock wasn’t used to it. That was even better. Sherlock continued pushing, his body looking for heat in all the right places. They pushed against a wall were Sherlock could use take advantage of his height. Moriarty fought back, but he knew a part of him was slowly losing. Sherlock brought his other hand up to Jim’s jaw and rubbed a thumb across the stubble that grew there.  
  
Jim responded by moving his hands up and over Sherlock’s shoulders, stretching downwards if only to just scratch his way back up. The twinge of pain made the taller man wince. And thusly responded by taking a firm grip of the devil’s jaw, locking it into place. He whimpered ever so lightly and God was that not the only thing he wanted to hear right now. The detective pulled back if only to just examine the criminal in his arms right now. God he hated him.  
  
“You love him don’t you,” the bastard said. His giggle didn’t go unnoticed. “You love J-“  
  
“Shut up,” Sherlock spat. And, surprisingly, James listened. ‘Fuck does it feel great to do that.’ The grip on the man’s chin became even tighter. He could feel his enemy’s hard-on reflex at the command. The power he had over him was tangible. “You’re a façade,” the man who worked for the angels said.  
  
“I thought that was what you were trying to disprove,” Jim said with a shimmer of mischief in his eyes. It complimented his crazy quite well, if Sherlock could say so himself.  
  
“I said shut up,” the taller man said, gripping his fingers tighter around the other man’s waist. It sent a delicious bout of friction through his dick. He wanted more. Again, Jim shut up. Holmes could feel his eyes squinting, showing his obvious observation. “You like it.”  
  
And, for once, Sherlock Holmes saw James Moriarty caught by surprise. And so he felt the need to explain.  
  
“You give off the demeanor of being such a superior human compared to everyone else. As if you’ve transcended their naïve, everyday living because you’re just so much smarter than them.” The observer paused, enjoying the look on his prey’s face as he tried to compose himself. He could feel the quick puffs of breath on his chin and it tasted like him. “And you are. That’s what’s wonderful.” An odd look shot across Moriarty’s face before quickly vanishing. “You have such a superiority complex that when you can find one better, someone who can match you… even perhaps beat you…” His lips were so close that the words rubbed off on the other man’s. The devil of a man was speechless. How delectable. “It’s when other people stand against you and can dominate you… That’s what makes your prick harder than ever imaginable.”  
  
The guttural moan that escaped the evil man’s throat was beautiful. It made him seem less than he was before. And Sherlock was enjoying degrading this man; taking him apart – piece by piece. He was despicable and it was delicious. He ground his hips harder into those bony hips, slotting their cocks next to each other oh so nicely. The detective almost saw white, but stood his ground.  
  
James’ blood was smeared across his chin and swollen lips, making them glisten in this harsh daylight. He didn’t know what he’d prefer to do – smash his face into the wall or fuck it. And that latter seems like such a good idea. “That’s what turns you on, isn’t it?” Sherlock continues, just when Moriarty thought things were through. He made his voice drop to its lowest. “You love to be controlled. Just as much as you want the power, you crave for when someone has all of the control. You constantly look for it – look for that challenge that just may best you.” The smaller man had begun canting his hips forward, just looking for that edge. But Sherlock wouldn’t let him. He had the power now.  
  
“Fucking-“ was the only word the bad man could get out before Sherlock moved the hand that was on his jaw to his mouth, clamping it shut. His skin rubbed across the cut on his lip, making Jim hiss. The detective hushed him. He looked down between their bodies (from what he could see) and quite enjoyed the bulge in the other man’s pants. He took his free hand and pushed down on his shoulder. He was met with resistance, but using his other hand as well, his enemy finally dropped to his knees, his arms motionless by his sides.  
  
The standing man began to unbuckle his belt as the man on his knees worked on the button and zipper. This was happening. Sherlock was going through with this. James Moriarty was going through with this. What a stupid, stupid man. And that was the glory of it. He wasn’t stupid at all. Neither of them was.  
  
And then the hotwettightdeliciousheat that enveloped him in that moment was almost too much to handle. Sherlock couldn’t stop the groan that nearly burst from his chest. He pinched the base of his cock as to not end this before it got good. His mouth was more than half way down before he reached resistance in the throat. Sherlock looked down. “Look at me, you bastard,” he said. And the man did. And he saw just as much of a devilish grin in his eyes as if he were looking at his face without his cock buried in his throat. He wanted to fuck that grin off of his face. “What a pathetic excuse for a human. I know you can handle more than that.” And as if that were some type of password, all of a sudden there was so much more heat.  
  
Sherlock couldn’t breathe. Christ, he was new to this. He had no idea what he was doing. But he knew one thing: he wanted movement. “Move, idiot,” he demanded, and Jim followed directions like the obedient servant he was. ‘Oh, fuck, I can’t handle this.’ But he held on. Long enough.  
  
He looked down. Moriarty was about to bring up his arms until he said “No hands.” He could only speak in short bursts now. This mix uncontrollable actions and complete control over Jim was so much to take in. He strained to keep his eyes open.  
  
The son of a bitch kept moving, using his tongue like a well-paid whore. One broad stroke along the underside each time he moved back slowly, a swirl of a tongue at the head, and then one quick downward slide - no teeth - when he nearly took the entire thing in his mouth. It made Sherlock whimper as he thrust in, matching the rhythm. It made James look like a lesser person but he felt like something closer to god. He couldn’t handle it for much longer.  
  
Then he didn’t. His only warning was the utter silence beforehand. Sherlock saw nothing but white and then, the next thing he knew, that was the end of it. The vulgar saying of ‘swallowed like a champ’ came to mind, and Sherlock would have reprimanded himself for even thinking that if not for being so content with what he was physically feeling. What he felt, emotionally, on the other hand, was completely different.  
  
He watched as Jim swallowed the last drop, pulling back slowly as he let it drop from his mouth. His lips were so plump and bruised from being fucked. It made him look so disheveled that the detective couldn’t handle it. He pulled up Jim by the collar and smashed their lips together, chasing his own taste with his tongue. His enemy moaned into his mouth, erection still poking the taller man in the hip. It was strained so tight that Sherlock knew he was close. The good man pulled back.  
  
“Who says I even want you to finish?” Sherlock bit out, remembering just who he was dealing with. Moriarty opened his mouth to reply, but the other silenced him with a glare. Well, less so a glance and more so shoving him back up against the wall. He took both of the devil’s hands and held them above his head, pinned against the wall. “When will you learn to keep your mouth shut,” he sneered. To keep him quiet, Sherlock used his teeth. He bit on that luscious lower lip and pulled. He pulled tighter until the scratch opened again, blood beginning to bubble out slightly.  
  
Sherlock kept his arms pinned with one hand and used the other to unfasten Moriarty’s pants. Thinking of something better, he said, “Stay,” he let the threat drift off unfinished. He knew Jim would do as he was told. The detective then tore the other man’s shirt open, buttons flying everywhere. He finished unfastening Jim’s pants and returned one hand to pin his arms above his head. He stood back to admire such a body.  
  
Moriarty was lean with enough muscle to accentuate his abs, taut in just the right places. The consultant detective dipped his head down and wrapped his mouth around the consultant criminal’s right nipple, lathering it with his tongue. Jim writhed beneath him, thrusting out for any type of pressure. He continued to release little sighs and moans of pleasure when the thorough detective then moved to his left nipple, giving it equal treatment. “If only I had my riding-crop,” he mumbled more to himself than anyone else, though he knew that Moriarty heard him. He would have loved to mark up this beautiful body with enough marks to count off ten for each victim. And an extra fifty for strapping a bomb to John. He blew on the slowly drying saliva, because he could; watching and calculating the reaction. He looked back up to Jim’s eyes and they were completely dilated. The madness is still blatant within them and just as mischievous. The detective brought a finger to his own lips as to show Jim that he should continue being silent.  
  
And then, Sherlock does what he’s wanted to do this entire time. He bit down between where the shoulder and neck joined, drawing a cry from his victim. “God! Fuck!” he screamed. ‘You have who you’re looking for.’ The man in control then traced the bite mark with his tongue, blowing on it slightly. He could feel the shiver run through Moriarty’s body as he did this. What a pathetic man. Holds himself above everyone else, kills them, and yet succumbs to the very thing everyone else does. Lust. Then what does that make of Sherlock?  
  
Sherlock then shoved one hand down Jim’s pants and gripped him tight, as if trying to raise him from perdition. But there was no saving this horribly wondrous man. The detective looked the criminal in the eyes as he pumped mercilessly, giving him no buffer to prevent chaffing. “You’re a human, just like everyone else. Deal with it.“ Three, four, five, and then he was gone, coming in ribbons into Sherlock’s cupped hand (avoiding getting it on his jacket). They both rivaled in the post orgasmic buzz.  
  
“I guess both of us have come to an end,” Jim finally spoke again after a long pause. They broke apart and began redressing themselves (Well, Moriarty as much as he could with significantly less buttons). The statement confused Sherlock slightly. Moriarty chuckled. “Oh, my way with words never ceases to amaze me!” he laughed outright, as if it were the funniest thing in the world. Sherlock didn’t understand the reference. Nor did he care. There were things to be done and people to save.  
  
“You’ve shown me I can be matched. You’re not as ordinary as I thought. Thank you. Bless you,” Moriarty continues unexpectedly. “As long as I was alive” the world froze around Sherlock Holmes just then “-you might have had a chance to save your friends; to get a way out.”  
  
“…Well, good luck with that.” Then James Moriarty, the devil himself, pulls a gun from the back of his waistband, aims it directly into that delectable mouth of his…  
  
And before Sherlock can stop him, James Moriarty shot himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for my shite writing.


End file.
